


The Progression of Time

by furtivus



Category: God of War (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Atreus and Kratos bonding, Boys Being Boys, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Genderswap, God of Boy, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Multiple Languages, Oops, Shapeshifting, Timeskips, and, because Kratos needs to get a bit better at being a dad, but there are non-angsty bits too dont worry, definitely angst, i guess, i probably translated really badly sorry, some of these characters are only mentioned, the title is kinda blase but oh well, this takes place over three years, this was supposed to be a short oneshot, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 05:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15090416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/furtivus/pseuds/furtivus
Summary: The arrival of Fimbulwinter heralds many a change in the lives of Atreus and Kratos, and none are so great as the emergence of Atreus’ godly abilities. The spirit of his mother’s people still lives within him, too. The task of learning to control both his godhood and his Jötunn heritage is an impressive feat, but by no means an easy one, and the time until the arrival of Ragnarök is dwindling. So Atreus vows to make good use of the time he has left, no matter how short.





	The Progression of Time

**Author's Note:**

> This was just supposed to be a short one-shot so I could get all the ideas out of my head. Whoops?  
> I hope you enjoy it regardless, and if you like what I do please consider supporting me by buying me a coffee here: ko-fi.com/vesaniart

Atreus is awake before his father, which is no mean feat. While it’s rare that his father has to rouse him from sleep anymore, it’s rarer still that he is up before Kratos. But on this night in particular, Atreus is roused from his sleep by a nightmare. His hands grasp at his bow – at where his bow was in his dream – but find only empty air. His breath rattles as he tries to calm his racing heart. When Atreus has calmed himself enough to haul himself to his feet, he moves silently through the dark of the house and to the still-closed door.

The world outside is dark, and the sky is open, but the snow that falls is only light, and the horizon is slowly turning a dark grey. Atreus draws in a breath and shuts the door. He slips back to his bed, wrapping the furs he sleeps in about himself, but he cannot find sleep again. He is awake and alert. His nightmare still burns at the back of his mind.

When Kratos begins to stir, Atreus drops down again, feigning sleep. After everything they’ve been through over the past few days, he doesn’t want to worry him. So a few minutes later he groans softly and rubs at his eyes, pushing himself into an upright position as he does.

“You’re awake,” his father comments. Atreus seeks him out. He’s cleaning the ash of the previous night’s fire from the hearth. “I thought you would have slept longer.”

Atreus throws his feet out from under the warmth of his furs and offers a half-hearted shrug. “Guess not. I’m ready for another day.”

Kratos offers a hint of a smile, and it tugs at Atreus. He’s hiding something of importance from his father. Surely he deserves to know…

But not now.

“What’s the plan for today?” Atreus asks, as cheerfully as possible.

“We’ve been absent for a while. The time we spent in Jötunheimr also passed differently. The house needs maintaining.” Kratos straightens, dusting ash off his hands. “We also need food for the next few days. Prepare yourself – we’re going hunting as soon as you are ready.”

Hunting! That, Atreus can do. And above all else it will take his mind off his nightmare. A well-needed distraction. Yet as Atreus fits his quiver and hooks his knife through his belt, he cannot help but linger on the dream.

“Atreus,” his father soon asks from the doorway, “are you ready?”

“Yeah, but…” In that instant, he makes a split-second decision. “I had the weirdest dream. Fimbulwinter was ending. And Thor came for us. Here at the house.”

Kratos regards him with an expression Atreus cannot quite recognise. “It was only a dream.”

“Yeah, but it felt different,” Atreus admits, finally voicing the concern that has been building in him since he woke. “It felt real…it felt like” – he pauses, hesitant to admit it – “the future.”

His father looks down at him for a moment, and perhaps he can see the concern in Atreus’ face, because his own softens ever-so-slightly. “Then we will worry about it tomorrow. Today, there are still things we can do.” Kratos moves to the door, and holds it open for his son. “Come.”

Atreus lingers for a moment, then nods and races out past his father.

 

“Tell me more about this dream of yours.”

Atreus looks up from the deer he’s skinning. His father has not spoken to him about his Jötunn blood, or the abilities that come with it, since they returned from Jötunheimr. The idea of his father bringing up the subject feel almost unnatural to him.

“What do you want to know about it?”

“You mentioned Thor, and the end of Fimbulwinter. And it must be important for you to be so worried about it.”

“I’m not worried.” Atreus looks back down at the deer. Kratos allows him to make a slow, precise cut under the animal’s hide before speaking again.

“You’re an awful liar, boy.”

Atreus blinks slowly before leaning away from the deer. “I thought it was real. We woke, exactly as we were last night – or, almost. Weapons in different places. The house looked slightly different. Nothing really changed.” He works the fine blade of his knife under the skin of the deer’s leg, careful to keep the pelt in one piece. “I was so sure it was real. And I think – I know – that it is. Or, it will be.”

“The future?”

“Yes. Like the Jötnar. Their predictions – or, premonitions.”

“And that is what you believe this dream to be? A premonition?”

Atreus pauses for a moment. He looks down at the deer, then continues to slice the skin from the muscle. Kratos watches him for a moment, before acknowledging that he will not receive an answer and turning back to his own deer.

It feels like things have changed between them, now that Atreus knows things his father doesn’t, rather than the other way around like it always has been. It feels almost good, in a way, to possess knowledge Kratos does not. But Atreus knows how he felt when his father withheld information from him. He will tell his father everything, he swears to himself. All in due time.

But for now, he would rather not dwell on the fact that he has foreseen the coming of the end of days.

 

It takes only two months from their return for Atreus to ask if he can visit Jötunheimr again. Kratos is initially reluctant, but after more coaxing he finally surrenders – Atreus may return, so long as Kratos accompanies him. If he thought it would dissuade Atreus, he was very wrong – if anything, it only encourages him.

Atreus relishes it. He allows himself to take his time walking the stairs, and crossing the bridge, and moving between the statues. He allows his fingertips to drag across the surfaces of the stone, as though he could feel the life that once was still beneath them. His heart tightened at the cold and the emptiness. The place remained as dead as it had been the first time they visited.

The drawings and carvings on the walls remain just as they were. Atreus runs his fingertips across the words, and over the images. He tries to memorise the depictions, the writing. He pretends not to notice how obviously his father stands in front of a red draping cloth. It’s apparent that he’s trying to prevent Atreus from seeing what the cloth hides. He’s not particularly subtle, but Atreus doesn’t question it. He’s learned by now to trust his father, and his father’s instincts. If there’s something he doesn’t want Atreus to see, then he will not pry.

Even after Atreus steps outside, onto the landing where they scattered his mother’s ashes, Kratos remains inside. Perhaps he is allowing Atreus time to himself, so speak to the world where his mother’s ashes linger. But perhaps he is merely hiding something from Atreus.

 

It’s less than a month later when Atreus has another premonition. It’s not the same as the first – not a dream, so much as a feeling. An acute knowledge that ill is coming to the house. When Kratos asks if he’s ready to hunt, Atreus struggles to find the words to explain exactly why he does not wish to go.

He’s not afraid, he tries to tell his father. He’s not staying back out of sloth. He is not hiding away. It’s a feeling, he says. An understanding. Knowledge that something is coming. His Jötunn heritage.

It takes a little convincing to warm Kratos up to the idea. He knows little about the Jötnar – not that Atreus knows much himself – but he tries to understand Atreus’ ability. So while he is not immediately keen on the idea of Atreus remaining behind, he finally allows it, if only to better understand just what his son’s Jötunn blood entails.

When Kratos returns home, it is to the sight of his son surrounded by Draugr and Hel-Walkers.

“So,” Kratos asks over their meal that night, “perhaps next time you have one of these…feelings, you should stay with me.”

Atreus looks up at him through thick, near-black eyelashes. “Why’s that?”

Kratos bites the inside of his cheek and looks back down at his food. “Had I not arrived back in time, you would have been overpowered by the Draugr, and the Hel-Walkers.”

Atreus can hear the concern and care in his father’s voice, and his lips tug into a faint smile. “I handled it, at least until you got back. Besides, if I’d gone with you, we would have walked back into them without knowing they were there. At least since I stayed home, I could hear them arrive. They weren’t exactly quiet, at least not until they’d hidden.”

“Still,” his father grumbles. “Should anything have happened to you…”

Atreus appreciates the sentimentality, but showing compassion in this way has never been his strong suit, so he is almost relieved when Mimir pipes up from where he rests.

“Give the lad more credit, brother. He may be young but he’s strong. He knew what he was doing.”

Kratos looks down at Mimir, then back to his son. He grunts softly and turns his attention back to his meal. Atreus offers Mimir a grateful smile.

 

It’s been three months since Atreus first went to Jötunheimr when he realises he hasn’t been making the most of the resources available to him. When the wind and snow die down, he takes Mimir by the ropes tied about him and walks out into the yard.

Atreus sets the head down on a stump and drapes a rabbit’s pelt around its neck. He’s not sure whether Mimir can even feel the cold anymore, but Atreus does it out of courtesy anyway.

“What can I do for you, lad?” Mimir asks as Atreus sits on another stump beside him.

“You knew the Jötnar, didn’t you?”

“Aye, little brother.” Atreus sees the corners of Mimir’s mouth twitch upwards. “Are you curious about your heritage, then?”

“Well, yeah,” Atreus says meekly. He wraps the furs on his shoulders tighter around himself. It’s probably the closest the world will see to spring with Fimbulwinter having arrived – the snow has stopped, the wind has died down and a few rays of sunlight even peek out through the clouds – but there is still an undeniable bite to the air. And beyond that, there’s a cold that Kratos cannot feel – one rooted deeply in Atreus’ bones. It’s the fear of the world around him in the face of impending doom.

“What do you want to know, lad? I cannot tell you everything a Jötunn could, but under the circumstances…well, I’ll be happy to tell you what I know.”

Atreus offers a smile. “Thank you, Mimir.”

“It’s no trouble at all, lad. Now, how can I be of assistance?”

 

The dead tongue Jörmungandr speaks is surprisingly easy to pick up.

That, and it’s a lot easier to learn something when your teacher is not Kratos, but Mimir. After all the time spent with his father, Atreus is unused to Mimir’s methods of teaching. It’s an experience not unlike that of being taught by his mother.

The ancient tongue is eerily similar to Atreus’ own, only the syllables are longer and the letters are sometimes exchanged. It does not take long for Atreus to pick up the language, and once he begins making his lessons with Mimir a daily ritual, he is quick to hone his skill.

“Do you think I’ll ever be able to talk to the World Serpent?” Atreus asks after a lesson, as he lifts Mimir from his usual stump.

“More than likely, lad. You’ve a knack for languages, and you’re already excelling at this one. No doubt you’ll be able to hold a conversation with Jörmungandr soon.”

Atreus beams at the compliment. He carries Mimir inside and sets him down on the table. Sometime during his lesson his father returned without his notice. Kratos is sitting beside the door when Atreus enters. He’s sharpening Atreus’ knife on a whetstone. Atreus regards his father with curiosity.

“What are you doing?”

“The blade had dulled. I was merely sharpening it for you.”

Atreus looks down at his father, and the knife in his hand. He knows for certain that the knife was not dulled – he sharpened it himself only days prior, and only used it once since. But he says nothing, only accepts the knife when Kratos holds it out to him.

“What are we doing today?” Atreus asks as he fits his knife back into his belt. Kratos almost seems surprised.

“You want to do something today?”

Atreus notices it then. The look in his father’s eye, the note in his voice. Atreus settles into an easy smile. “Of course I do! I love spending time with you, even if we’re not going on wild adventures. And I may be taking lessons with Mimir now, but there’s still so much for you to teach me.”

The corners of Kratos’ mouth twitch upwards, eliciting a grin from his son. “So,” he says, standing slowly and lifting his axe from where it rests against the wall. “What shall we do?”

 

Less than a month later, Atreus has another of the prognostic feelings. This one feels worse. The feeling of dread hits Atreus when his father opens the door.

“Stop,” he croaks out, pressing a hand to his stomach. There’s a weight in the pit of it, ice cold and bleeding fear into his veins.

“What is it?” Kratos asks, voice twinged with concern.

“Don’t go,” Atreus says, pushing himself up against the wall. The sudden shock of the prophecy having faded, he is able to step away from the wall and over to his father. The feeling of dread still hangs heavy in his limbs. He cannot express in words the premonition inside him, and not for the first time wishes that his father could feel it, too.

“If you go, something terrible will happen. Please, stay. Don’t leave the house. Not today.”

It’s obvious to Atreus that his father does not wholly believe him. While he came to accept that Atreus’ prophecy a month and a half prior had indeed been correct, and that he truly had foreseen the danger to their home, he struggled to come to terms with the idea of Atreus being able to predict the misfortune of a place he did not know.

Kratos was going to hunting grounds his son had never ventured to. Never before had he taken him there, and Faye had not known the way, so Atreus knew nothing of the place. Kratos had intended not to take him again that day – Fimbulwinter was no time to introduce the boy to the rocky mountain trails and frigid foothills of the hunting ground.

“You know I cannot stay,” Kratos replies, and he does not miss the way Atreus’ grip tightens on the fabric of his shirt. If he did not know better, he’d go so far as to say there was pain in his son’s eyes.

“Why not?”

“We need the food. And you said this morning, the winds are changing. Tomorrow may be too late. We need to stock up now before the winter worsens.”

Atreus’ mouth moves in a way that seems almost independent from the rest of him. He begins a handful of sentences, trying to find the right words. Finally he manages, “Then I’m coming with you.”

“No. This is no place for you.”

“Either you stay here, or I go with you!” Atreus argues, and there is something in his voice that makes Kratos pause. “I know what I’m talking about! If you go out there alone, something terrible will happen – I can feel it! I _know_ it! At least if I come with you, whatever happens won’t be as bad.”

Kratos stares down at his son for a moment. Then his shoulders lower slightly. “Gather your things,” he instructs, and Atreus’ eyes light up. “Hurry, boy. We need to get to the hunting ground as quickly as possible.”

Atreus does hurry – but not so much as to forget to put the resurrection stone into his bag. He hasn’t used one in months – not since his father fought Baldur – but he held fast to the one he still owned.

And it’s a good thing he does.

They’re on one of the mountain trails when the earth beneath them rumbles. The shaking is focussed, localised – centred directly beneath the mountain they’re standing on. It’s enough to throw them both off balance, and set loose the rocks around them.

Boulders and rubble come crashing down from above. Kratos, thrown off his balance and stunned from the sudden mayhem unfolding around him, is slow to react to the threat. Atreus shoves at his side roughly, pushing him up against the steep cliff face beside them. The rubble falls in front of them, sometimes just inches away, but the angle of the cliff keeps them from being hit.

The fall of rocks is slowing, and Atreus dares to take a step forwards. The ground beneath him rumbles again, only more forceful this time, and more rocks fall around them. Kratos steps away from the cliff face, and the ground beneath him splinters.

Atreus makes a grab for his father, but there’s no possible way he can hold Kratos’ full body weight. He’s dragged down with him, and they go tumbling down the mountain. Kratos pulls Atreus to his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around his son. Atreus clings to him, fear chilling his blood.

It’s the fall that kills Kratos, and that’s the luckiest thing. If the rubble had crushed him, or he’d fallen in such a way that it broke his neck, Atreus would have no hope of resurrecting him. Instead, it’s the shock of hitting the ground. Perhaps it’s because he didn’t anticipate it. Perhaps it’s because he had the weight of Atreus crashing into him. Perhaps it’s because he was more focussed on saving his son than himself. For whatever reason, the fall kills Kratos.

Atreus has just enough time to scratch the rune into the resurrection stone and stab it into his father’s chest before the rubble above them comes crashing down. Kratos’ back arches as the stone slams into the skin above his heart. Then he’s rolling, and pulling Atreus with him, out of the way of the last of the rubble.

Kratos kneels over Atreus, keeping the boy safely under him. He stays like that, hovering in place over his son, for the duration of the rockfall. Even after the ground stops rumbling, he stays in place for a few more minutes, just to be sure of his son’s safety. When Kratos finally leans back, Atreus is shaking.

“I told you,” the boy whispers. He screws his eyes shut, curls his hands into fists. “I told you not to go – I told you something bad would happen. You didn’t _listen_!”

Kratos reaches out a hand tentatively. He lets it hover for a moment above Atreus, before resting it gently on his shoulder. Atreus sucks in a gasp of air at the contact.

“I am sorry,” Kratos says quietly. He watches his son’s eyes open, sees his gaze turn towards him. “I should have trusted your instinct.”

Atreus’ breathing slowly steadies. He sucks in a few deep breaths before they return to normal. Once he’s calmed down, Kratos stands slowly. Atreus carefully stands beside him.

“Let’s return home.” Kratos looks to the sky. “We should hopefully be able to hunt enough to keep us fed before the oncoming storm arrives.”

Atreus follows his father’s gaze. The weight of his premonition is replaced by the fear of the world around him.

 

It takes another three months for the idea to solidify in Atreus’ head. It takes a bit of convincing, but finally his father gives in to his pleading.

Mimir is only too eager to offer his sage advice in regards to the paintings in Jötunheimr. So, while Atreus explores the halls of the great buildings, digging deeper into its depths in hopes of finding more about his heritage, Kratos carries Mimir through the main hall, allowing the head to fawn over the carvings and paintings.

When Atreus returns, arms filled with books he found deep in the halls of the building, it is to the hushed whispers of Kratos and Mimir. They’re standing in front of the final panel of the drawings, and Kratos is holding the red curtain out of the way. From his place on the stairs, Atreus is out of sight, but he cannot see the panel.

Atreus can’t hear what his father and Mimir are saying, but from the tone of their voices he knows it’s nothing good.

He could come out now, look at what they’re talking about – if he were quiet they would never even know he was there. But Atreus trusts his father. They’ve come back more than once in the time between now and their first visit. Every time, Kratos attempts to subtly hide the curtain. Every time, Atreus pretends he’s done a good job of it. If his father doesn’t want him seeing the carving, he will not pry.

Atreus silently moves back down the stairs, then gives a loud cry of, “Hey! Look what I found!” He runs up, making his footfalls purposefully loud. His head clears the top of the stairs in time to see the curtain fall into place behind his father.

“What do you have there, lad?” Mimir asks, trying his hardest to turn himself in Atreus’ direction. Kratos gives a soft, exasperated grunt and turns Mimir around.

“We were right! There were whole halls worth of books deeper in. There’s so much history here! I couldn’t tell what everything was, so I just grabbed a few books –”

“A few?” Mimir laughs. “I can barely make you out behind that pile.”

“I got some history books, a couple on magic, some on language –” He goes to continue, but some of the books topple from his hold. Kratos sighs softly and reaches down, picking up the fallen books at the same time as he hooks Mimir back onto his belt.

“Next time,” he says, voice gruff but still gentle, “take only as many as you can carry. You can always return later for more.”

Atreus gives a sheepish smile. “Yes, father.”

 

Atreus is surprisingly adept at magic. It becomes a part of his and Mimir’s morning ritual. Languages, history and magic. When neither Mimir nor Kratos are watching, Atreus will sometimes slip out into the forest around his home to practice the spells he watched Freya use. He’s not as well suited to the Vanir magic as he is to that of the Jötnar, but he has good enough control over the simple spells. Already he can bend to his will the brambles that grow on the opposite bank of the river, in much the same way Freya grew the brambles hiding her home.

Jörmungandr is a surprisingly good conversationalist. Atreus takes Mimir to the temple in the Lake of Nine, and under Mimir’s watchful eye he calls for Jörmungandr. Together, the pair explain Atreus’ willingness to learn the dead language. Yet, when the conversation begins spiralling into topics Atreus has not yet learned the words for, Mimir sends him into the Travel Room where the great rumbling of the World Serpent is muted and dulled. When Atreus grows bored of sitting alone in the room, he returns in time to hear Mimir’s warning to Jörmungandr: _He must not know_. Atreus’ heart clenches at the words – again, the people closest to him are hiding parts of his own story. But he trusts Mimir, almost as much as he trusts his father. He lets the comment slide.

The history of Faye’s people is extensive and beautiful. There are stories hidden in their books that even Mimir did not know. Atreus spends hours poring over the books, and the knowledge contained within. He spends time with his father still – of course he does – but he can feel the gap between them growing into a divide. He tries his hardest to bridge it, but his father will never fully understand the way the Jötunn blood sits in him, or just how much it means to him, and so Atreus is forced to feel, each day, the sting of the two of them growing apart.

 

Kratos returns home one day, after a week away from his home, to find the yard empty. It’s still early morning, but Mimir and Atreus are not in their usual place outside. Kratos sighs softly and places the load he was carrying down beside the house. Most likely the pair have gone to speak with Jörmungandr again. More often than not, it’s where they go when they vanish.

It’s then that Kratos notices the snake on the ground. Kratos has never been good at identifying the creatures – when Faye was alive she would tell him which type had wandered into their garden, and when Atreus grew older he would take on the job when his mother wasn’t around. But when the snake was too close to the house, or Kratos didn’t want to wait for Faye to come and identify it, Kratos would simply kill the snake – there was no way he would risk his son being bitten by a viper.

The snake before him could have been one such viper, or it could have been a harmless smooth snake. But Kratos cannot tell, and he doesn’t want to run the risk. He pulls out his axe and raises it to strike.

The second he starts bringing the axe down, Atreus appears before him with a sharp cry of, “Father, stop!” He grips the handle of the axe, pushing upwards against Kratos’ downward swing with all his might. His eyes are wide and panicked.

“Atreus,” his father gapes, stunned. He pulls his axe back, dropping it at his side. “What are you doing, boy? I could have hit you.”

“You were going to kill me,” Atreus wails. Kratos can see his hands are shaking. He notices the snake is gone.

“That was you?” Kratos asks, pointing at the snake tracks in the dirt. His son nods. “I did not know. I did not even know you could shift your shape.”

Atreus sees the look on his father’s face and shakes his head. “I didn’t know either until after you left. I only did it the first time a couple of days ago.”

Kratos’ expression softens slightly. “What else can you do?” he asks.

“Well, not much more than what you’ve already seen. I’ve only tried shifting into a snake so far. And I can still only do the spells I’ve showed you. But I’ve practices the spells I use in battle, see –” He holds out a hand towards a small branch that’s fallen from a tree. “ _Brenna loga_ ,” he murmurs, and the wood bursts into flame.

 

Atreus enjoys being a wolf. While his Jötunn blood means he doesn’t easily feel the cold, there’s something pleasant about feeling genuinely warm in his own skin, without relying on animal furs to stave off the cold. And he feels strong, too. Not that he isn’t strong in his normal body, but this is a different kind of strength.

His father isn’t particularly fond of the change. Atreus spends much of his time out of his human form, and of the two animals he has learned to shift his shape into, he greatly prefers the wolf. He often spends whole days in the creature’s body, and Kratos isn’t seeming to take a shine to the new form.

The displeasure of having a wolf for a son is evened out by the help Atreus offers in hunting, though. His senses are enhanced, which makes it easier to spot tracks and sniff out animals. And when they come across monsters, Atreus is quick to shift back into his human skin and help his father fight them off.

One day Atreus goes out hunting on his own. He leaves the house in the shape of a human, with the promise of returning in a couple of days at most. He comes back four days later, limping through the door in the shape of a wolf, his back legs bloody and torn, and an infected gash on his side.

Kratos never had to learn how to use the herbs and balms Faye made. She never even taught him how to make them. It was something she shared with Atreus, while Kratos was away. When his son comes back bleeding, he pulls out the old journals Faye wrote her recipes in and teaches himself, with Mimir’s assistance, how to help his son.

Bandaging the open wounds on Atreus’ legs isn’t difficult – Kratos has bandaged more than his fair share of wounds in his life, and the only difference now is rubbing the herbal balms on the wounds before he binds them. It’s cleaning the infected wound that’s hard. Luckily it hasn’t had a chance to spread through Atreus’ body. But Kratos has to fix the damage done, and under Mimir’s watchful eye he carefully removes what he can of the infection from his son’s body. It hurts him to see his son in pain, writhing beneath his hands as he cleans the infected blood out of the site of the wound. But he has to do it to temper the infection.

Kratos dresses the wound, and spends the rest of the day gathering the herbs and plants needed for Faye’s treatments. He stays by his son’s side, mixing them together in accordance with his wife’s journals and Mimir’s instruction. Atreus is too weak to move, let alone change back into his normal form. So for the next few weeks, Kratos stays close to him, bringing him food and water. He tends to the wounds, changing their dressings regularly.

One day while his son is sleeping, Kratos finds bite marks on his neck. They’re hidden under his fur, and mercifully on the nape of his neck. Any further around and they would have caught his jugular. Any further around, and Atreus would be dead.

When Kratos returns home after hunting for Atreus, he finds the boy curled in his bed in his regular form. He’s asleep and shaking from the cold – in his wolf skin he had no need for the furs he normally used to keep warm. Kratos leaves his kill outside and steps over to his son. He raises one of the furs to drape it across the boy, and is stopped by the sight of the wounds. In the weeks since his son returned, the scars on his throat have healed over. It’s the other wounds – the ones that have scabbed over his legs, and the great gash in his side – that make Kratos’ heart burn.

 

When Atreus is well enough to stand and walk, he busies himself with tending to his mother’s garden. He isn’t fit to run and fight yet, but he’s spent so much time bedridden that he cannot stand to stay in his home any longer.

The garden is overgrown from their time away, but Atreus is delighted to find that even after the fire troll burned it, his mother’s herbs and plants have continued to thrive and grow between the weeds.

Then there’s the second garden, the one behind their house. Unlike the large garden it doesn’t grow herbs and flowers, but vegetables and tubers, depending of the time of year. It takes less to maintain, and of course is much closer to the house, so on the days where Atreus’s wounds hurt too much for him to make the trip to the larger garden, he sits out behind the house and tends to the vegetable garden.

Atreus takes his lessons with Mimir in the garden, now. Since he is unable to fight with his father, he spends the whole day with the head, rather than just the mornings. Sometimes he returns to the house to find Kratos has brought him back more books from Jötunheimr. It means a lot to Atreus that his father is trying to help him, but he still cannot shake the feeling of a divide between them. He cannot think of any way to bridge the gap, either.

On days where Fimbulwinter strikes hardest and they are all confined indoors, Atreus will attempt to tell his father about the Jötnar. But Kratos either cannot understand, or he does not wish to, and Atreus’ teachings fall on deaf ears. It’s days like that that’re the hardest for all of them.

 

It’s roughly a year since they scattered Faye’s ashes when Atreus and his father have the fight. It starts over something small – how now that Atreus’ wounds have healed enough for him to run, he should be spending more time helping Kratos.

Atreus is in the middle of a lesson with Mimir, spending the afternoon tending to the garden while the wind and cold have eased. The running Kratos saw when he came to fetch him was really the boy catching himself after he nearly fell, but Atreus dares not tell his father he is stumbling again. Instead he brushes the comment off, tells his father only that he cannot run far, and he would be of little use in battle. He tries to return to the lesson, but his father is having none of it.

“If you sit idle for too long you will lose the skills you possess. Already you have spent weeks in the body of a wolf, and even more confined to your bed. And now that you have a chance to hone your skills, you sit around speaking dead tongues to a severed head.”

“I’m looking after something that belonged to mother,” Atreus replies. He’s tired and sore, so perhaps there’s a little too much snap in his tone. “And I’m learning about her people. I thought you’d want me to cherish what we have left of her.”

It’s the wrong thing to say, and Atreus knows it. But for months he’s been trying to learn more about who his mother was, and every time he tries to share it with his father he is pushed away. He fears there is no longer a way to bridge the gap between them, and the fear of losing his father too begins to drive him to rage.

“Hold your tongue, boy,” Kratos snarls, and Atreus can feel the anger radiating off of him. It’s not just animals and beasts he can feel the emotions of.

“Why should I? It’s not like you’ll listen to anything I have to say anyway. Seems like I’m the only one who cares about who mother even was.”

“What?” His father is definitely not pleased, but Atreus isn’t going to back down. He pushes himself upright and glares up into his father’s eyes.

“Every time I try to talk to you, every time I try to tell you about them – about _her_ – you just brush me off. All you care about is the things you already know. You don’t care about mother, and you don’t care about her people – you don’t care about _me_!”

His father wants him to run? Oh, Atreus will show him running. He snaps his hand out, snatches from his father’s belt the Bifröst crystal, and _runs_.

On a good day, Atreus can easily keep pace with his father. But today is not a good day. The second he puts weight onto his legs, they threaten to buckle under the sudden force. He stumbles, and his father almost catches him, but he’s still nimble.

Atreus is tempted to turn into a snake, just so he can slip away without his father’s detection, but the man knows where he’s headed, and it would be all too easy for him to just go to the Travel Room and guard the gate. No, he needs to beat his father there, and there’s only one way he can think to do that.

“ _Skjót-fœri_ ,” Atreus whispers, and instantly he can feel himself move faster. The pain in his legs seems to lessen, too.

He reaches the boat in the river by their house long before Kratos does. It’s only when he guides the boat past the piled rocks that indicate a door to the realm between realms that he realises his father can still use it.

“ _Brenna loga_!” Atreus cries, waving a hand towards the line of trees on the pathway leading away from their house. Some of the trunks of the smaller trees give out at soon as they catch on fire and fall to block the path. Kratos is still well behind him, and the fire should hold him up a little longer. Then, as continues down the river, Atreus whispers to himself, “ _Størkla_.” He feels his muscles strengthen, if only for a time. With that, he pushes himself forwards through the water. The boat glides much further than it could before. Atreus can feel rage beneath his skin, and perhaps that, too, powers him towards the temple.

It’s only when Atreus throws open the doors of the temple and charges past the dwarves that he realises the wounds on his legs have opened up. Or, rather, it’s Sindri’s gagging.

The doorway opens as Atreus is closing the doors to the travel room. Just before they shut, he sees his father’s face. Kratos’ body slams into the doors at the same time as Atreus whispers, “ _Brimill_.” Kratos may be strong, but he’s not strong enough to break a magic seal.

“Atreus!” he shouts, slamming his shoulder roughly into the door again. It does not budge. Atreus ignores his father’s cry and locks the Bifröst into place. Within moments the branches of the World Tree are moving to accommodate the change, and the whole Temple is turning.

As soon as the gateway to Jötunheimr is open, Atreus charges up the stairs and across the bridge. He charges through the temple, past the statues and up to the paintings on the wall. Atreus goes straight to the red curtain, and before he can stop to think he has the fabric tightly in his grasp. The rage burning beneath his skin tells him to pull the curtain down, to look at what his father is hiding from him. It’s his right, after all – these carvings tell his story.

But he doesn’t.

Atreus slowly loosens his grip on the curtain. He unfurls his fingers and steps back. Still the rage burns beneath him, threatening to explode. He storms out, past all the carvings and onto the landing where he scattered his mother’s ashes. Atreus steps up onto the small wall that surrounds the platform, and roars.

Instantly, his skin bursts into flames – the same flames that his father’s Spartan Rage elicits. And when he shouts at the sky, his voice is furious and his tongue moves to form the dead language of Jörmungandr. Atreus screams his rage, his fury, his fear. He screams it to the sky and to the corpses and to the wind that carried his mother’s ashes away from him. And when he can scream no more, and the flames on his skin die down, he steps backwards off the wall and returns to the temple.

Atreus passes by the paintings. He stops at the first one to feature him. He’s but a mere child in his mother’s arms. Atreus passes his hands across the painting and runs his fingers through the carving of his name. _Loki_.

The statues of the Jötnar who made it back to Jötunheimr continue down a hall that Atreus has not yet walked down. He follows them, taking note of the survivors. They all deserve to be seen. They all deserve to be known.

At the end of the hall is a statue, more defined than the others Atreus has passed by. Somehow, before even seeing the details, he knows. The statue is female, with long hair and detailed fingers carved in her hands, rather than the basic style of the other statues. Her eyes are eerily realistic. She is a familiar height.

Runes are carved into the stand at her feet.

ᛚᚨᚢᚠᛖᛃ ᚦᛖ ᛃᚢᛊᛏ

_Laufey the Just_

The emptiness in Atreus is replaced with a sudden, overwhelming sadness. He reaches his hands out, presses his palms into his mother’s. Against all hope, they are cold.

It’s the final straw for Atreus. He gives first a single, soft whimper. Then collapses at his mother’s feet, sobbing and heaving.

 

When Atreus wakes, his neck is stiff and his legs ache. He managed somehow to sleep through the night, and woken to the light of Jötunheimr’s sunrise. When he pushes himself shakily to his feet, Atreus finds his bandages and legs covered in blood from where his wounds reopened the previous day. He bids farewell to the statue of his mother and heads deeper into the temple.

Atreus spends the next few hours wandering through the halls of ancient tomes. He’s looking at first for something to distract himself, but soon finds something even better – one of the books, written in the same cursive of his mother’s journals, lists spells and treatment to heal all manner of ailments. Atreus sits against the bookshelf, flipping through the book until he finds the spell to treat his infection. He cannot do it here – there are ingredients found in his mother’s garden that he needs to accompany the spell – but it instils in him a little hope.

He could have stayed in the halls of Jötunheimr forever, but the reality that he brought no food with him soon sets in, and Atreus is forced to return to Midgard.

Mercifully, neither of the dwarves are in their shop when Atreus opens the Travel Room doors. He isn’t in the mood to explain why he came running through the day prior, or why his father came barrelling in after him.

It’s not until he’s tracked a deer through the forest that Atreus realises he left his bow at home. His knife alone won’t be enough to take down the animal, but that’s okay – his wolf body has fangs.

Atreus cleans the blood from his face in a stream. The water is ice cold, and it shakes some of the emotional fog from Atreus’ mind. He washes his wounds, too.

It’s easier moving as a wolf than as a human, though he isn’t sure why. Progress is still slow, and so by the time Atreus reaches his mother’s garden he’s been away from home for a full day. He shouldn’t have spent so much time away, he knows, but he needed the time.

Atreus has to crush the healing herbs between two rocks. He smears across the gash in his side the thick paste and hovers his hand over it. “ _Heill_ ,” Atreus whispers, and already he can feel his blood clearing. Another, different mix of plants and the same spell again, and his muscles begin to knit themselves neatly back together. The wound does not completely heal, but it’s better than what it was, and there’s now an absence of pain Atreus hadn’t even realised was there.

He returns home in his wolf form. It’s warm and strong. The path beneath him feels somehow even more familiar beneath paws.

When Atreus reaches the cleared land that marks the edge of their yard, he straightens up. The fur sheds off him and he inhales deeply as the frigid cold reaches him. The weather will turn again soon.

Atreus pushes the door open slowly. His father is pacing the room, concern radiating off of him. He’s so caught up in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice Atreus until he says softly, “Father?”

Kratos spins on his heel, wide eyes landing on his son. “Atreus,” he chokes out, hurrying to the boy. Kratos drops to one knee and rests a hand on his son’s shoulder. His grip is a little firmer than normal, and Atreus can feel the tension of his muscles even from the faint contact.

“A-Are you okay?” Atreus asks, his father’s own concern leeching into him.

“You’ve been gone so long, I started to think –”

“So long? But, I’ve barely been gone.”

The look on his father’s face makes his heart clench.

“Remember what I told you, brother,” Mimir says from his place on the table. Kratos takes heed of the head’s words, and Atreus watches as his father’s expression softens.

“You’ve been away for a month, boy,” Kratos says gently.

Atreus’ eyes widen. “No, no – no! I-I was only gone for a _day_ –”

“Time moves differently across the realms, lad,” Mimir assures him.

“I’m sorry,” Atreus says, gripping his father’s pauldrons tightly. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t _know_.”

“Calm yourself, boy,” his father says. “You have do not need to apologise. It was me who pushed you to feel like you had to leave.”

Atreus looks up at his father and nods slowly. He reaches down to his belt and unhooks the Bifröst, holding it out. After a second his father accepts it and attaches it to his own belt. They share another silent moment before Kratos pushes himself to his feet.

“The weather will turn soon,” he says, back to his normal self. “I don’t know how long for. I’ll need to cut wood enough to last us, and hunt enough to keep us for the time being.”

“I can do that,” Atreus offers. “The hunting, I mean.”

“But your wounds –”

“I found a spell back in Jötunheimr,” he says, lifting the book. “They’re not fully healed, but it’s enough to hunt. You know you can’t cut enough wood and get us enough food, and we both know I can’t chop wood to save my life. Please, father? Let me help you.”

Kratos looks down at him for a moment before sighing and grumbling, “Take the head.”

Atreus beams and snatches his bow and quiver from where it rests on his bed. He grabs the rope around Mimir’s head and fastens him to his belt. Then he’s off, into the forest.

“He was worried, you know,” Mimir says a few minutes later. Atreus had almost forgotten the head was hanging from his belt. “That’s what he was going to say – ‘I started to think you weren’t coming back’.”

“Really?” Atreus asks. He can feel guilt pooling in the pit of his stomach.

“Don’t stress yourself over it, lad. You didn’t know.” Mimir hesitates for a second. “The hardest part was when you returned to Midgard. With the Temple’s bridge pointing to Jötunheimr I could at least calm him with the knowledge that time moved differently for you. When you returned, though…”

“How did he even know?”

“Brok and Sindri came to tell him. They only stepped away from the shop for a few minutes to find more resources for their craft, and by the time they got back the Temple had returned to Midgard. First thing Sindri did was come back to tell your father. It was all we could do to stop him running off to find you – though of course, Sindri was able to do a little more than me, what with his having arms and all.”

Atreus gives a soft chuckle at Mimir’s last comment. “He was really that worried?”

“Of course, lad. He’s always worried about you. He just isn’t always so good at showing it.”

Atreus offers the head a small smile before stopping. He silently draws his bow and fits an arrow. Mimir takes the hint and silences himself, watching on as Atreus crouches and passes around behind a tree. He takes a single, shallow breath and lets the arrow loose.

Atreus can only carry one deer at a time, and he’s reduced to dragging the massive blue-antlered buck he shot. It’s just like one of the many they saw roaming the land around Freya’s home. Kratos seems impressed when his son returns dragging the deer. Atreus drops it on the ground near his father and dives back into the forest.

He hunts a few more deer with his bow and arrows before acknowledging it’s taking too long. So when he returns again to his home, he leaves his bow and quiver on the ground by the table where his father has begun to skin his earlier kills. For Mimir’s sake, he sets the head down on the same table.

Kratos says nothing when the next few deer show up with bite marks in their throats. And when Atreus returns dragging a wolf behind him – one whose eyes have been very recently scratched out – Kratos is silent except to say that yes, he will leave the head on when he skins the beast so that his son can wear it as a cloak.

 

There is a designated room in the house where Kratos hangs the hides he tans. It’s there that he finds Atreus, a few days after the weather turns, smearing the hides of the deer and the wolf with the oily liquid made from their brains crushed into boiled water. All of the hides are large, so it’s not the first coat Atreus has given them.

The boy applies extra care to the wolf skin, ensuring every part is properly treated. The way he treats it essentially confirms what Kratos assumed since his son brought the body home.

“That’s the one that did it, isn’t it?”

Atreus looks up in surprise, then nods slowly. “How did you know?”

“The way you look at it. It made an enemy of you. I know how that sits in someone. How it looks.” Kratos sits beside his son and dips his own hands into the mix. He begins smearing it across the deer hide before him. “Why do you wish to keep it? To flaunt your kill?”

“No. It probably sounds weird, but…well, he was beautiful. And strong. He couldn’t help fighting me. I was another wolf in his territory. It’s just what they do. I didn’t have any real reason to kill him except for revenge, and…well, he didn’t deserve that. This is the best I can do for him now.”

Atreus doesn’t miss the look of pride in his father’s eye.

 

The winds die down after a few weeks, and there is still enough cured meat to last them for a few more, so there is no need for either Kratos or Atreus to hunt. But Atreus does, because he wants to taste something other than the salted meat and vegetables from their garden that he’s had for the past few weeks.

Atreus tells his father he is going to practice his magic and his aim, and so Kratos stays behind to clean up the mess in their yard left by the wind and snow.

Atreus is a falcon when he sees the rabbit. The transformation was abrupt and unexpected, but not unwelcome. His sense of sight is extraordinary now, and it makes it easy to see the animal far below.

The rabbit doesn’t even know Atreus is coming until he wraps his talons around it.

Rather than dig straight into the animal, Atreus carefully skins it. An idea has taken root in his mind. Once he’s skinned the rabbit, Atreus lights a fire. Fresh meat has never tasted so good.

 

Sindri is the more easily approachable of the two. Once Atreus tells him why he needs the buttons, he’s not only willing but eager to oblige. Once he vanishes into the realm between realms it takes mere minutes for him to return, holding the two buttons Atreus asked for – one small and simple, the other large and inlaid with a jewel. Atreus thanks him, and pays him, and returns home.

 

Atreus learned to sew and darn from his mother. His father never learned, so it became his task to fix torn clothing and mend any damage done to the furs they warmed themselves with. It also means he can cut the fine slit in the skin of the wolf and sew the edge into place, and that he can stitch the large button onto the other side of the pelt.

And, when the rabbit fleece has finished being treated, Atreus stitches the smaller button to one side and cut the buttonhole in the other.

The wolf skin cloak fits Atreus almost perfectly, and he knows that when he grows it will continue to fit him. Almost like the hide was made for him.

Atreus leaves the house with only his knife and walks off into the forest with little more than a few parting words to his father. He doesn’t know where he’s going, only that he’s searching for life in the world. Atreus knows there are more humans out there – more mortals hiding from the end of days. He wants to find them – to find even a trace of them – if only to assure them that there is hope for the world. Atreus doesn’t know how much hope there is left, or how much it means, but it lives in him, and it lives in his father.

There are humans hiding in the ruins of a city. Atreus can feel them – feel the energy of their lives in the otherwise lifeless land. Their energy is localised in the centre of the town. The ground drops down suddenly, revealing doorways and windows of buried houses. Atreus stands at the edge of the pit before dropping into it.

The second his feet hit the ground, the humans move out. Atreus can see the moment they step through the doorways of the buried homes that there is no hope for them, and none to give them.

“It’s a boy,” one of the men sneers, lips twisting into a grin.

“Pretty little thing. Young, sprightly.” Another of the men regards Atreus. His expression makes the boy feel sick. “We could put him to work.”

“Once he stops being useful we can cut the flesh off his bones,” chimes in a woman.

Atreus stares them all down. Then he lowers his head, and slowly pushes back the wolf’s. “I have met your kind before.” He sounds nothing like his father – neither as imposing nor as mature – but he is confident, and he can sense the effect that alone has on the humans in front of him. “I have killed a man before. I wished never to do it again, but I will not hesitate to defend myself from you.”

There’s motion in the corner of his eye. More people, trying to sneak closer. A futile attempt to box him in against the wall.

“You hear that?” the first man says, drawing Atreus’ attention again. “The kid’s killed a man. What a tough guy.”

“You do not want this fight.”

One of the men to his right charges, and Atreus feels the strength of his godhood flare up within him. He spins on one heel and grabs onto the man running at him. He’s half the man’s size but he has no difficulty whirling around and hurling the man at the people closing in on the other side. The man slams into two more, sending them all crashing to the ground.

Another man tries his luck. He rushes Atreus from the front. The boy merely holds out a hand and utters, “ _Slyngva_.” The man goes flying as a gust of wind throws him backwards.

“Witch,” the woman hisses, slinking back into the opening of her doorway.

Atreus gives a single, sad chuckle. “Not quite.”

More of the humans rush from their homes, and some even drop from the edges of the pit. Atreus waves his hand across his front and whispers, “ _Greiða._ ” Immediately the ground begins to writhe with the same vines that blocked the path to Freya’s home. They burst forth from the earth and tangle themselves together in a semicircle around Atreus. When he sees the humans trying to climb the vines, he flicks his fingers towards them and murmurs, “ _Brenna loga_.” The vines burst into flames and Atreus closes his eyes at the sound of the mortals’ screams.

Atreus turns away from the mess he has caused and jumps. His fingers catch the lip of the ridge and he pulls himself easily up. One of the humans behind him calls out, and Atreus casts his gaze back over his shoulder.

“Who are you?” the mortal man calls. He is holding his arm tight to his chest, and Atreus can see the fresh burn wounds on his skin.

“Who am I?” Atreus looks up at the sky, at the darkening clouds, called in by the turmoil of emotions that threaten to drown him. “I am…Loki.”

Atreus lifts the head of the wolf back over his own and leaps into the air. He curls in on himself, and as he does, his limbs shorten and his body shrinks. A single flap of his wings sends Atreus into the air. He sweeps once over the pit, if only to look down on the damage he has done, before flying back through to forest to his home.

When Atreus arrives he shifts back in the air, and lands in the middle of the yard. He looks up to see his father watching him. Kratos doesn’t need Jötnar blood to know how his son feels.

“It is a curse,” he says gently.

Atreus pauses on his way back into the house. He gives a single nod and echoes, “It is a curse.”

 

Atreus takes his lesson in the garden by their house. He intends to spend time with his father in the afternoon, so does not go to the larger one. After setting Mimir’s head down on a stool he ducks quickly back into the house. When he returns, he’s holding the rabbit skin with the button sewn on. Atreus drapes it around Mimir’s neck and fastens it at the front.

“What’s this, lad?” Mimir asks in surprise.

“A gift. As thanks. And you’ve been complaining about the cold enough that I know you can feel it, so I may as well give you something useful.”

Mimir isn’t quite sure what to say, but what he manages to get out is probably an affirmation. Atreus smiles at his response and settles down to continue tending to the garden.

After a few minutes of stunned silence from Mimir, the heads asks, “What did you want to know today, lad?”

Atreus takes a moment to think before asking, “Which realm’s time moves the slowest?”

“Ah, that would be Helheim. Though, I’m guessing you don’t really want to go back there?”

“Not particularly.”

“Well, lucky for you lad, Muspelheim is the next slowest realm. And, if you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, it’ll suit your wants just fine.”

“How slowly does the time move compared to Midgard?”

“Well, I can’t remember for sure, lad, but I’m pretty sure you can spend a week or two there and lose only a day in Midgard.”

Atreus’ lips twist into a wry smile. “Thank you,” he murmurs. He’s silent for the rest of the morning.

 

Atreus has been having nightmares ever since Baldur first showed up at their house, but never ones this bad. He wakes up in a sweat, a scream stuck in his throat, night after night. It becomes a ritual for two weeks before Kratos notices – and even then, it’s only because Atreus almost falls asleep lighting the hearth.

“What is troubling you?” Kratos asks as Atreus jerks himself awake.

“Nightmares,” his son admits, almost without hesitation. “Every night.”

“I knew men who suffered from night terrors. I myself am not immune to them. There is little you can do to stop them. Perhaps there is something in your mother’s writings. Aside from that…I cannot offer much help.”

Atreus sighs softly and runs a hand through his hair. It has grown longer over the past few months. “Is there anything I can do to temper them?”

“Come to terms with whatever it is that haunts you. That is all the help I can offer you. And sleep – you have no hope of defeating these nightmares if you do not make yourself open to them.”

Atreus nods and rises to his feet. He barely makes it to his bed before he collapses, his own exhaustion forcing him into sleep.

 

Kratos wakes in the middle of the night to a dull, red light and the crackling of flames. When he sits up he sees Atreus standing by the door. The flames of Spartan Rage dance across his body, but they are much more subdued than they were the first time Kratos saw them – and the second time, in Jötunheimr, that Kratos still doesn’t know of.

“Atreus,” Kratos calls softly, leaning forwards. His son ignores him, or he does not hear, and opens the door. The world outside is eerily calm – no wind howls between the trees, and no snow falls. It’s the closest to a cloudless sky that Kratos has seen in a long time.

“He’s sleepwalking, brother,” Mimir perks up from his place on the table. The rabbit skin Atreus prepared for him is still fastened around his neck.

“Sleepwalking?”

“You know of it?”

“I’ve seen it before, back in Sparta. Not often, though. And never life this…”

“He’s part god, brother, and part Jötunn. Of course it’ll manifest differently in him. We ought to check on him.”

Kratos reaches out and lifts Mimir from the table. He steps out of the house, gaze quickly landing on his son. The snow where his feet fell has melted away.

Atreus stands at the edge of the trees, his back to his father and his arms slightly raised at his sides. His hands are out, palms open, and slightly glowing. It could be the fires of the Spartan Rage, or it could have to do with the words he’s murmuring to the wind. Kratos cannot understand what he’s saying, but Mimir can.

“What is it?” Kratos asks, lifting the head up to he can better see and hear Atreus.

“He’s…” Mimir’s expression saddens. “He’s speaking to his mother.”

Kratos stares ahead at his son. “Is…” He closes his eyes and swallows thickly. “Is she answering?”

“You know the answer to that, brother.” Mimir watches Atreus for a moment longer before saying gently, “This is all very personal for him. We should give the lad some time. Head back into the house and come back if anything changes.”

Kratos turns away slowly and returns to the house. He sits on the edge of his bed, holding Mimir out before him.

“I have never seen him like this,” he says softly, worry softening the edge of his voice. “And his fire…” Kratos leans his head on his free hand. “If something happens to him, Freya will not help him again.”

“Relax, brother. You saw his flames – they’re subdued. Controlled. He has progressed more than you realise. And now that he knows about his heritage – _all_ of his heritage – there’s no fear of the sickness returning. He’s no longer at war with himself.”

Kratos gives a soft, deep ‘mm’ at the back of his throat. “I’m not so sure,” he replies, turning his attention back to Mimir. “He is no longer ill over his hatred of the gods, but…he is not happy. He has not been in months. I do not know how to help him.”

Mimir gives a sigh, and immediately his tone hardens. “Listen, brother. Listen to him. To the things he says, and the things he doesn’t. He feels like he’s grown apart from you. You remember what he said to you, before he ran away to Jötunheimr?”

“Yes.”

“Help him bridge the gap, brother. _Listen to him_.”

And Kratos does listen. He hears, the second Mimir finishes speaking, the cries and shouts of his son. He’s on his feet and out the door in the time it takes to blink, axe in hand.

Flames lick at the trees in front of Atreus, and his hands are alight. The fires of his Spartan Rage have died away. He’s shouting to the trees, the words foreign to Kratos.

“What is he saying?” he asks, holding Mimir out with one hand and wielding his axe to freeze the flames with the other.

“He thinks he’s fighting. Somebody’s attacking him.” 

Atreus’ tone changes and the flames on his hands die away. He stumbles backwards, away from the trees. He starts speaking faster, seeming almost to trip over his own words. A second later he’s on his knees, hands pressed against his ears and head bowed, repeating the same few phrases over and over.

“Head?” Kratos growls.

“He’s…he’s begging. He’s scared. Asking for his life. And he’s…apologising.”

“Who to?” When Mimir doesn’t respond, Kratos turns him so he’s glaring into the head’s eyes. “Who. To?”

Mimir exhales slowly through his nose and closes his eyes. When he speaks, his voice is soft and sad. “Modi.”

Kratos looks up at his son and slowly lowers Mimir, hooking him back on his belt. He crouches, putting his weight on one knee and leaning his arm on the other. “Atreus,” he says softly. “Listen to me, boy. Modi is not here. You have nothing to fear.”

Atreus’ speaking slows, and after a moment he stops talking. He lowers his hands slowly to his sides, back straightening slightly at his father’s voice.

“I’m here. I’m _here_ , with you. You’re safe. Come back, Atreus – you don’t have to be afraid.”

Atreus rises shakily to his feet. He turns, crosses slowly the short distance to Kratos. He stops before him, drops again to his knees.

“Father?” Atreus whispers.

“Yes,” Kratos says gently. He goes to reach out to his son, but before he can, Atreus crashes forwards into his father. One hand rests on his father’s chest, next to where he dropped his head, and the other grips Kratos’ left collar, fingers curling around his shoulder and the heel of his palm pressing into the scar where an electric arrow once pierced the flesh.

“ _Fyrirgef_ ,” Atreus whimpers into his father’s chest. His grip on Kratos’ shoulder tightens softly and he says it again, “ _Fyrirgef_ , _fyrirgef_ ,” over and over as he begins to sob.

Kratos wraps one arm gently around his son, holding him close. He lowers his voice and asks, “What is that word?”

Mimir takes a moment to speak. Finally he replies, “ _Sorry_.”

 

Sometimes Atreus forgets his own name.

It’s when he’s in Muspelheim, and the winds dub him Loki. When he exists on that other plane, he is no longer Atreus. Atreus is the boy in Midgard who struggles to hold himself together. Atreus is the boy in Midgard who is at war within himself over his heritage. Atreus is the boy in Midgard who wakes up tasting the blood of his sickness still on his lips.

Loki is the Jötunn-god who can twist the world beneath his hands unto his will.

 

The weeks slip by in Muspelheim, and often the great sword who presents the trials to Loki has to remind him to eat, to sleep, to return home. There is no true day or night in the realm, just endless fire and brimstone.

Loki never truly learns to handle the heat, especially in the later trials, but it doesn’t matter – he doesn’t need to. The Jötunn have many a spell for all kinds of climates. Loki need only utter, “ _Svalr_ ,” to himself, and his skin will cool.

The sword must continue raising the difficulty of its trials, as every time Loki returns to the realm he defeats everything the sword has to offer. Each time he comes back with a different spell to hone, and each time he leaves, weeks later, he has perfected it.

Loki loses himself in Muspelheim. He feels no fear in the fire. When he fights and trains, he can forget the pain of his two halves, tearing him apart. He can forget the pain of his father turning his back on his son’s own heritage. He can forget the lives he has taken, and the nightmares they leave him with.

And when Atreus returns to his home, less than a day after leaving, he must forget, for a time, the ease that settles deep inside him beyond the gates of Muspelheim.

 

The nightmares become less common after Atreus’ outburst. Like his father said – to temper them, he had to come to terms with what he was fighting. While his memory of the sleepwalking is foggy, Atreus can remember well enough the contents of his dreams, and the things he said to the empty air.

Atreus continues to dream, and more and more often he finds himself on the verge of a premonition. Sometimes he experiences full predictions. Whenever he does, they are vague – mostly snippets of feeling, or brief glances at places, or even snatches of sound.

Sometimes the premonitions are filled with hope.

Mostly they are filled with despair.

 

The world is beginning to speak of Loki. Atreus hears their words, their thoughts – reflections in his dreams. He sees the humans huddling together, hiding from the cold and the fear. They live in caves in the mountains; in the hollows of valleys; in the ruins of cities. Some small group hide in meagre huts and huddle around fires in the hopes of keeping warm and safe.

The story of Loki is passed through trades and meetings, and so the vision of the boy has changed since he first met the mortals in the remains of their city. There were a few more times he allowed humans to catch a glimpse of him, and so all the whispers and stories he hears depict Loki as _a boy in a wolf’s skin cloak_. It’s become his defining feature.

Atreus wakes from a dream of people’s stories and is greeted with the dark of his home. Outside, the snow falls and the wind howls. Atreus pushes himself up and gathers his cloak. He drapes it around himself, fastens it at the front, and draws the wolf-head hood. When he steps out into the snow and closes the door behind him, his father’s eyes follow his path.

Atreus flies as a falcon. For the first leg of his journey, he flies beneath the treetops. When he was young, his mother taught him: _Thor is lazy, and so too is his lightning – it strikes the closest thing to the clouds_. Despite the fact that no lightning strikes, Atreus does not allow himself to drift above the treetops.

When he has been flying for hours and still no lightning has struck, Atreus allows himself to rise a little higher. He keeps a wary eye out, though – surely Thor would grab with both hands any opportunity to strike down the boy murdered one of his sons, and helped to kill the other.

Atreus scours the country for human life. He finds none of the caves he saw in his visions. None of the valleys he flies through are inhabited. All the clustered huts he finds have been destroyed by Draugr, their inhabitants slaughtered.

It’s only when he goes to turn back home that he sees the little girl.

She’s curled up in a tiny ball, barely visible from the sky. The wicked winds blow snow against her side, and already she is partly covered. Atreus wheels down to hover above her, and now that he’s closer he can see that her fingers are white, and her lips are blue, and she is shivering madly.

Atreus transforms back above the ground and lands in a crouch before the girl. She looks up, and her eyelashes glisten with frozen tears. Fear flashes across her face, but it’s hard to tell.

“Don’t be afraid,” Atreus says gently. He steps forwards, slowly, removing his cloak as he does. When he’s right in front of the girl he drapes it over her shoulders and wraps it tightly around her little body. “Everything is going to be alright. My name is Loki, and I’m here to help.”

 

After the wind dies down – after Atreus grows a living wall to keep out the wind and snow, and burns branches to stave off the cold – Atreus takes his falcon form again to search the land nearby for the girl’s home. She lives in one of the little colonies – the tiny huts made hurriedly from branches only meant to last until the inhabitants are ready to keep moving. Atreus catches sight of it easily, now that he knows what to look for.

He carries the girl home. When he steps into the clearing that the temporary homes have been built in he immediately feels the rush of fear from all the colony’s inhabitants. Their eyes turn to the bundle in his arms – the body wrapped in fur.

The girl’s mother comes running, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. Atreus gives himself enough time to be sure of who she is before he pulls back the fur cloak. The little girl in his arms shifts, and never before has Atreus felt relief on such a scale.

“How can I ever repay you?” the woman asks as she lifts her daughter from Atreus’ arms.

“You don’t need to repay me. Her safety and your thanks are enough.” Atreus adjusts his grip on the cloak and throws it over his shoulders. He looks down to button it, and by the time he looks back up the woman before him has unfastened a chord from around her neck. She holds it out to him.

“I cannot take this,” Atreus says, looking at the necklace. There’s a charm hanging from it – a green metal arrowhead.

“Please. You saved my daughter – my only child. I cannot let you leave empty handed. And the necklace means little to me now. It would be better for you to take it than for it to hang meaninglessly around my neck.”

Slowly Atreus holds out his hand to accept the gift. He reaches back, under his hood, and ties the chord around his own neck.

“Thank you,” the woman says when he lowers his hands. “We will never forget your kindness, stranger –”

“Loki,” Atreus corrects her. He watches her eyes widen, feels the air shift around him from the simultaneous intakes of breath from everyone watching. Then, before the crowd, he leaps up into his raven skin and flies out of sight.

When Atreus returns home his father is sitting on the edge of his bed. He looks up as the door opens, and waits for Atreus to finish brushing the snow from his cloak and skin before asking, “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“No,” Atreus replies, pulling the chord from beneath his clothes and holding it up so his father can see. “I found something better.”

 

As it so happens, Atreus can shift his shape in his sleep.

Mostly it’s into animals. The first time Kratos found out came as a surprise – he opened his eyes to sounds in the middle of the night and found a wolf fast asleep in his son’s bed. The next time it was a snake, then a fox, then a wolf again. Then there was the time Kratos woke to an enormous thumping sound, only to discover a moose sprawled out on the floor beside his son’s bed.

Then there are the other times.

It first happened – at least, the first that Kratos knew of – when the two of them had spent all night culling Draugr and Hel-Walkers from around their house. Atreus, exhausted, had gone to sleep as the sun was coming up, while Kratos had scoured the nearby land for any remaining threats.

Upon returning home, Kratos was met with the sight of not Atreus, but a teenage girl, asleep in his son’s bed. She has long hair the same red as Atreus’, and her face and expression are eerily similar.

Kratos rouses her, confused, and watches in amazement as while she sits up, her hair shortens, her shoulders broaden and her face widens. By the time she’s sat up fully, it’s Atreus sitting in his bed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

“What’s happening?” he asks, turning his head to face his stunned father.

Kratos doesn’t know what to say.

 

Atreus isn’t sure how old he is. He knows he turned eleven not long after they first returned from Jötunheimr, but beyond that time is skewed. He knows he has spent more time in Muspelheim than in Jötunheimr, meaning the two no longer cancel each other out. And with all the time he has spent in the realm of fire, he knows he has aged more than the passing of time in Midgard should allow for.

On the anniversary of what should have been his thirteenth birthday, Atreus wakes to a silent house. The sun has not yet risen, and a heavy fog wafts under the door. Atreus takes hold of his wolf skin cloak and drapes it over his shoulders.

Atreus steps out into the morning. He treads lightly through the snow, and takes a seat on a stool. The fog that curls heavily around his feet thins as the sun rises. It’s not until the golden-orange light spills over the trees and bathes Atreus in its warmth that he realises there are almost no clouds in the sky.

The snow behind Atreus crunches softly – the unmistakable sound of footfalls. A moment later Kratos crouches beside him.

“It’s been thirteen winters since your birth,” he says slowly. The words feel rehearsed, as though he wanted to be sure what he said was right.

“Yes. Technically.”

“Technically is close enough.” Kratos takes his son’s hand in his own and presses something into it. Atreus closes his fingers around it – it’s cold, metal and round.

“What’s this?”

“From your mother. And me. Made at your birth, for your coming of age. A reminder of who you are – no matter who you become.”

Atreus unfurls his fingers and looks down at the small disk in his palm. It’s made of pure silver, and into the side facing up are carved runes he has never seen before.

συερτα

“What’s this?” Atreus asks, tracing his fingers across the strange symbols.

“It is your name. In the language of my homeland.”

Atreus studies the writing for a moment before turning the disk over. The runes carved into the other side are familiar to him.

ᛚᛟᚲᛁ

“Loki,” Atreus whispers. He looks to his father, who nods.

“It is a part of you. It always will be.”

Kratos reaches down to his belt and removes a length of chord. He carefully takes the silver disk and threads the chord through the hole at the top. He ties it around Atreus’ neck and allows it to fall against his chest. When Atreus looks down, the runes reading _Loki_ are facing outwards.

It’s a small step for his father, but it lights within Atreus a spark of hope.

 

Atreus hasn’t had one of the prognostic feelings in over a year – at least, not like this. When his father leaves the house to ensure no monsters lurk nearby, dread sets deep in the pit of Atreus’ stomach. The feeling only amplifies the longer his father is away, and it’s only when the dread threatens to cripple Atreus that he realises the threat is not to the house, but to his father.

Four legs are faster than two and so for the first time in a long time, Atreus throws his bow and quiver over his shoulder, rather than his wolf skin cloak. “ _Skjót-fœri_ ,” makes it past his lips before fur bursts out from under his skin and his paws hit the dirt. His magic grants speed to his movement, and Atreus allows himself to hope against all odds that he will find his father in time.

 

Kratos is going to die.

He’s died before, but this time there will be no returning. He doesn’t know whether the ogre that has beaten him to the ground is enough of a battle to warrant Valhalla. He hopes it isn’t – Kratos doesn’t want to spend the rest of eternity surrounded by the gods. But then again, Helheim isn’t a particularly good option, either.

Perhaps he will return to his homeland’s Underworld.

The ogre hovers over him. The corpses of the other three ogres that ambushed Kratos only succeeded in riling up the survivor. The few remaining Draugr shamble towards them.

Kratos is going to die.

A sharp cry of, “ _Ljósta_!” pierces the air and a burst of light explodes against the back of the ogre. It reels sideways, and Kratos can see Atreus land in a roll in the centre of the pit. His head snaps up, eyes burning with determination, and he looses another arrow towards the ogre with a shout of, “ _Galti atras_!” The stampede of boars from Atreus’ runic summon utterly decimates the remaining Draugr.

The ogre roars and charges at Atreus. He doesn’t flinch, simply leaps into the air. His form shifts into that of the raven, and he sweeps up over the ogre’s head. Mid-air he changes back, and Atreus leans backwards to fire an arrow into the back of the ogre’s skull with a call of, “ _þruma_!” Electricity arks through the ogre’s body, and by the time it fades away, the creature is dead.

Atreus lands behind the corpse and slings his bow back over his shoulder. Kratos looks up at his son, eyes slightly widened. Atreus hurries over, body lightened now that the dread has drained away. He helps Kratos to his feet and takes some of his father’s weight.

Kratos tries to leave Atreus carrying as little of his weight as possible, but he’s drained and aching. He hasn’t had a real fight since the battle with Baldur, and he hasn’t properly fought alone since he first entered Helheim – and prior to that, it was before he met Faye.

Atreus is angry. Kratos can feel the heat of his skin, even through the cold of the air. He almost expects, at any moment, for Atreus’ skin to burst into flames. But he doesn’t.

Atreus is angry at himself – for not realising where the threat was, for allowing his father to go out alone, for almost not making it in time. When the whole horde of Draugr block their path, mere minutes from their home, he is angry and _terrifying_.

Kratos cannot fight. He is leaning the brunt of his weight against his axe, and he fears if he tries to lift it he will be unable to stand. But he cannot allow his son to face so many Draugr alone.

Only, he doesn’t get the choice.

Atreus slips out of his father’s hold and walks towards the Draugr. They stand still, unsure of what to do. Atreus stops, only a few steps from his father, and holds up a hand. “ _Brenna loga_ ,” he whispers, so softly Kratos almost does not hear it, and before him every single Draugr bursts instantly into flames.

Kratos almost doesn’t register when his son returns to his side, and takes easily much more weight than Kratos allowed him to take before. They walk right through the flaming Draugr, and when Kratos looks back there is nothing left of them – not even ash.

Atreus is angry. And for the first time ever, Kratos is afraid of his son.

 

“You need to talk to him, brother,” Mimir said gently.

Atreus used the same healing spell on Kratos’ wounds as he did on his own over a year prior, and once he’d bandaged his father he returned to his mother’s garden to pick more of the herbs and flowers needed for the healing balms and the Jötnar spells.

“What do I need to say?” Kratos asks, pushing himself up on his bed.

“Everything! He can tell how you feel, brother – he knows you’re afraid. You need to start opening up to him about who you are, and you need to admit to yourself what he is. Two and a half years he’s struggled with the thought that you hate the Jötnar part of him – even more time for him, really, what with all the time he spends in Muspelheim. You need to start listening to him more, and you need to tell him about _you_.” Mimir gives a conflicted sigh before adding, “I know you’re not the Ghost anymore, brother, but you cannot deny that you ever were.”

Kratos stares down at Mimir from the corner of his eye before nodding slowly. “If that is what it takes.”

 

When Atreus returns, Kratos allows him to set down the basket he’s carrying before calling him over.

“I know you can sense how I feel.”

“Father –”

“I mean only to tell you why I am afraid.” Kratos motions to the stool before him and Atreus slowly sits. “In Sparta, there were men who gave their whole lives to a single cause. They allowed themselves to be swept away by a single desire – they lost themselves to it. And I…” Kratos reaches out and lifts one of his blades. “I was one of them.”

Atreus watches as his father winds the chain of his blade around his forearm, matching the metal links perfectly with the burn scars.

“Your mother was not the only wife I had, and you are not my first child.”

“You had another son?”

“A daughter.” Kratos pauses to place the blade back with its twin. “I loves them both, but when the time came and I made my choice – gave my soul to a god – it cost me the two people I loved most.”

“What…what happened?”

“I ravaged a town. Many. All under the bidding of Ares. Only, he tricked me – placed my wife and daughter in the town I was destroying. I was warned away from the temple they were transported to, but I ignored the words of the oracle and killed everyone inside. The oracle cursed me to forever wear their ashes on my skin – a constant reminder of the misdeeds I performed.”

Kratos looks up at his son, who is sitting in stunned silence.

“I did not wish to tell you, for fear of how you would react. Of what you would think of me. But you need to know. This is what happens when you lose yourself to something. You lose the people you care for, too.” He reaches out, lifts his son’s chin gently. “I have been unfair to you. I have not listened to you, and I have pushed you to this point. I wish to amend for that mistake.”

Atreus meets his father’s gaze, then screws his eyes shut. When he opens them again to look down at the ground, his eyelashes are glistening.

“You know I would never –” He cuts himself off, and his gaze turns to Kratos’ left shoulder – scars like lightning splintering away from the entry wound. “No. No, you don’t know.”

“Atreus –”

“I’m not going to hurt you again. I don’t – I don’t want to hurt you again. I just want you to listen to me.”

“I will.” Kratos wipes a stray tear from his son’s cheek. “I will.”

Atreus looks at his father for a second before he throws himself forwards. He wraps his arms around Kratos and presses his face into Kratos’ collar. It takes Kratos a second to respond, but he gently wraps an arm around his son.

There’s a moment of silence before Atreus says softly, “I love you.” His voice is so quiet Kratos isn’t sure he wasn’t just hearing things. But he holds his son a little tighter all the same and murmurs a response.

“I love you, too.”

And for all the times when Atreus doubted it, he lets out a soft sob into his father’s chest because this time he knows, _he knows_ , that Kratos means it.

 

Atreus stands in the open doorway, looking out at the sky. The clouds are dark and heavy, but are yet to split and let loose the snow that weighs them down. The world outside seems to be holding its breath.

The first bolt of lightning arks across the sky and as the accompanying thunder breaks the deafening silence, the world outside explodes into terrified sound.

The trees and the animals that live between them radiate such an overwhelming sense of fear that Atreus’s legs almost give out beneath him. He catches himself on the doorframe and looks out to the life outside – the terrified life, the fearful life, the hopeless life.

Atreus wants to step out, to promise the trees and the animals and the _life_ that everything will be okay, that he and his father are there to protect them. But he doesn’t, because lighting strikes again, and another layer of fear washes through him. He can almost hear the lives calling out, now – can almost hear their words, mingling with the fear. They dread what is coming. The end of days.

Thunder cracks again, and lightning splits the sky again a second later. Atreus begins to burn with the dread. It warms the frozen pit of his stomach, where the fear of others has nestled for so long that he almost forgot how it felt.

There is nothing natural about this storm. The lightning is too quick, too erratic – too much too fast. The thunder that cracks the sky sounds almost like a voice. Three white-hot bolts all strike the same place in quick succession. Between them, something falls – something glowing white with the heat of motion.

Atreus has not been keeping track of the time. It would be too hard to do, what with all his trips to Muspelheim and Jötunheimr. But he knows.

The white light hits the ground and the sky opens. Snow begins to fall, and the air is whipped about by howling winds.

Atreus pulls his bow and quiver over his shoulder, and gathers his cloak into his hands. He steps out into the cold, and does not feel it. As he walks through the snow, it melts away around him – flames lick at his body. But it has not rage that has caused them to spring forth. It is fear. And it is hope.

As Atreus walks through the cleared land of his yard and towards the ring of trees, the life around him changes. The fear that echoes through his very being is replaced with hope – the screams and cries are replaced with song.

Atreus draws his cloak about himself and fastens it. He lowers the wolf’s head down over his own and steps forwards. Within seconds, he’s in the air, circling back around towards the Lake of Nine.

The Travel Room feels different. The air is heavier, and charged – buzzing with energy. Muspelheim is still locked into place, so all Atreus has to do is place the Bifröst into place and push down.

When he steps into Muspelheim, he is still Atreus. And even when the winds whisper to him _Loki_ , he does not lose himself to it. The sword is silent when he presses his palm against it, but Atreus can feel the energy humming beneath his fingertips. Even when he whispers a goodbye, the sword does not respond, but the buzzing beneath his palms strengthens slightly.

Atreus leaves Muspelheim mere moments after entering. The cold of Midgard settles on his skin, even in Brok and Sindri’s forge. Atreus sheds his human form for feathers, and he circles around the Lake of Nine before coming to rest on Jörmungandr’s head. He sits above the Serpent’s eye and returns to his human form. Despite not having spoken to the Serpent in months, Atreus is greeted as an old friend.

Atreus apologises for the time he’s spent away, saying the only reason he had not visited sooner was because he was teaching his father about the Jötnar. And it’s true – rarely are his lessons spent only with Mimir now. More often than not, the morning are spent telling his father about the stories of the Jötnar, with the head’s help of course. And on the days where his father does not feel like hearing about Faye’s people, the time Atreus spends alone with Mimir feels less like solitude and more like a day off.

He tells Jörmungandr all this, relishing in the chance to let someone know just how much better he feels. But when the stories of his father dwindle to a close, Atreus finds himself curling into his cloak, the buzzing warmth of his happiness all but leeching away.

“ _You saw the lightning?_ ” Atreus asks after a few minutes of silence, his tongue twisting the worlds into the ancient language. When Jörmungandr replies with an affirmative, Atreus draws his legs up to his chest and rests his chin on his knees. “ _I’m right, aren’t I? He’s coming_.”

Another affirmative.

Atreus forces himself not to enter Freya’s garden. He perches atop the wall of brambles and looks out over her land. Atreus cannot help but feel that if Chaurli were standing and the house was visible, he would not be able to refrain from going inside. Freya may be cursed so that she can never harm another, but Atreus is smart enough to know that if she really wanted to hurt him, she would find a way. He doesn’t know if her rage is aimed at his father alone, or at him, too. He doesn’t particularly want to find out.

When Atreus returns home the winds have picked up and the sky is darkening. He opens the door to Kratos’ worried face.

“Where have you been?” his father asks, standing up and crossing the room. “I thought you –” He cuts himself off, and so Atreus finishes for him.

“You thought I ran away again?”

“I was worried something had happened to you.”

“I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to take so long. I just…” Atreus sighs and runs his hand through his hair. He closes the door and walks to his bed, dropping down onto the edge. “I spoke to Jörmungandr. About the lightning.”

“What about it?”

“It isn’t normal. It didn’t look normal, and everything is afraid. I can feel it, father.” A brief pause. “You remember the dream I had, the night we returned from scattering mother’s ashes?”

“I remember it.”

“I know I haven’t been keeping track of time, but…it’s here. The end of days. Ragnarök is beginning.”

Kratos stares down at his son for a moment before asking, “Are you sure?”

“I saw him come down from the clouds, between bolts of lightning. And even if I hadn’t, I just _know_.”

For a moment Atreus fears his father will disagree with him, fears all the progress they have made until this point will be for nothing. But then Kratos lifts his axe from where it hangs and collects his whetstone from beside the hearth. He takes a seat and begins to sharpen the blade.

“What are you doing?”

“I trust your instinct, and your judgement. And if we are to face the God of Thunder, it would not be proper to do so with a blunt axe.”

Atreus blinks in surprise, before a faint smile curls the corners of his lips. “What will we do?” he asks, pulling his bow and quiver from his shoulders. Kratos looks up at him.

“There is little we can do. But prepare for the worst. Set your bow where you can easily reach it. Be ready to run. And sleep lightly tonight.”

Atreus nods his understanding and hurries to prepare for the night ahead of them.

 

The air feels thick when Atreus wakes. The world is silent and black as pitch. Then all at once it comes crashing down as thunder rattles the house and lightning strikes far, far too close for comfort. Atreus is on his feet in an instant, and so too is his father. Bow in hand he runs to the door, ready to greet the end of days.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback and constructive criticism is welcome!


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